DREAM ZEON!
by GunslingerShota
Summary: UC 105. Zeon is all but defeated. The Earth Federation more corrupt than ever, rules with a greasy iron fist. The Colonies are taxed into poverty, forcing many colonists to embrace the life of the outlaw. Amid the chaos and oppression among the stars, a boy fights for his future, and a girl honors her heritage. They have two goals, but one destiny, to keep the dreams of Zeon alive!
1. Prologue: War Never Changes

**Prologue: War never Changes**

 **Here it is, my Gundam fanfic.**

 **Ever since the original Gundam series debuted on Toonami I was a diehard, Zeon fan because of the cool mobile suits, mainly the Zakus, with their gritty appeal and the sympathetic POV which for villains was fresh and new to me at the time in contrast to the black and white morality of Star Wars. I was especially overjoyed with the release of the PS2 game, "Zeonic Front." As time went on I saw Zeon not just as cool and sympathetic "bad guys," but as Shakespearean heroes whose ideals if accepted would've lead to a less bleak, future for humanity. And the denial of those ideals in favor of dirty bureaucrats is the overall reason the UC is cursed with constant wars, with or without Zeon.** **I find it very tragic that those ideals were never realized long after Gundam Unicorn. So in the long run, I realized that in context, the Gundams and their pilots were not heroes, but glorified pawns of the status quo, after all what system** _ **doesn't**_ **exploit the ideals and dreams of young people. All the UC Gundam heroes do is solve one problem and create another, one beam rifle, blast at a time.**

 **But to quote V for Vendetta, "beneath these chunky plates of titanium there is more than circuitry, minovsky particles and a meat** **nugget, there is an idea Gundam, and ideas are beam-proof!"**

 **So, for all you fellow Zeon fans, I bring you an end to the tragic tale of Zeon, and my own revolution against Gundam's status quo.**

 _War, war never changes . . ._

 _Ever since the first human realized its own sentience and its inherent capacity to create and annihilate, the human species has long held a near perverse, obsession with spreading ideas and using them to achieve its ambitions and dreams._

 _Ideas spawned by great minds would give birth to philosophies. Philosophies would give birth to cultures. And civilizations would rise from ideals to uphold them._

 _But as a side effect, man's ego would compel it to wage wars to conquer and force its ideals on one another, only to inevitably fall defeated from the decay of an idea or the might of a higher one. But ideas cannot die; they endure long enough to be revised, corrupted or invalidated. But war never changes._

 _After more than two millennia of wars and developing civilizations had left the earth scarred, the most phenomenal turning point in human history occurred in the year of 2045. The Universal Century: the end of the anno domini calendar and the dawn of a new era that marked mankind's ascension to the stars in giant, cylindrical space colonies called Sides. Man would venture from its native world towards the final frontier to find new places to live and die._

 _However, wherever man goes, its destructive hubris will follow, and even new ideas that are benign in principle can be perverted as propaganda for malice and war._

 _Zeon Zum Deikun: the Prime Minister of the most distant colony cluster of Side 3 and one of the greatest minds of the Universal Century proposed a set of ideas that he hoped would forge a bright future for humanity. He believed that earth; mankind's home world, should be held sacred and left untouched to recover from the ravages of man's wars and ambitions. Another was that the colonies should be independent from the established Earth Federation government. The last of his proposal was the new type theory. A theory of human evolution in which humans would develop a sixth sense and untapped potential of the mind to adapt to space and deepen human empathy and understanding; a theory that would become a proven fact in years to come._

 _However Zeon's ideals threatened the status quo set by the powers that be, and those he trusted had more sinister interpretations of his ideas._

 _In the wake of the fateful year of 0079, after a series of economic sanctions against the colonies by the Earth Federation, Zeon suspiciously passed away and his trusted advisor Degwin Sodo Zabi succeeded him as ruler of Side 3. Renaming Side 3 as the Principality of Zeon, the Zabi family declared a revolutionary war against the Federation utilizing the most amazing war machine ever forged by human hands: the mobile suit._

 _In the first month of what would be remembered as the One Year war, Gihren Zabi the eldest son of the Zabis twisted the late Zeon's ideals into a doctrine of spacenoid supremacy and heinous war crimes were committed on both sides, from nuclear slaughter by the Federation, to Zeon's gassing of a colony and dropping it on earth in a failed attempt to eliminate the Federation's headquarters in Jaburo, South America, devastating Sydney Australia instead. Half of humanity was extinguished as a result._

 _People were horrified by the atrocities committed in the name of independence, so horrified that both sides prohibited the use of weapons of mass destruction, prompting the Zeon invasion of earth._

 _At that point the war was in Zeon's favor, until the day a boy from Side 6 had a destined encounter with a prototype Federation mobile suit of immense power to end wars known as the Gundam. Utilizing the power of the Gundam he turned the tide of the One Year War war in the Federation's favor culminating in Zeon's defeat and the death of nearly the entire Zabi family._

 _Zeon's ideals however were so deeply ingrained in the minds of the space colonists they refused to give up fighting for freedom. But the original meanings of Zeon's ideals were lost to the late Gihren Zabi's hypocrisy. And the Federation, fearing the newfound existence of New types and their potential to supplant the old humanity, had New types exploited for military purposes._

 _From time to time, the fires of revolution would rise from the ashes of Zeon's defeat, only to be extinguished by the folly of their tainted ideals and leadership, and the might of the lineage of Gundams tasked with Zeon's destruction. Every Zeon rebellion has failed, while humanity's potential has been kept stagnant and rotten by the Federation's corruption in a tragic cycle of repetition . . . until now._

 _The year is UC 105, five years after Side 3: the former Republic of Zeon has forfeited its independence to the Earth Federation. The last Zeon rebellion over the artifact known as Laplace's box has left the Earth Federation stooped deeper in the abyss of corruption than ever before, and has bled the economies of most of the colonies dry._

 _In the shadows of the corporate Side 4 colony of Prometheus, a spark of entropy will disrupt the similarity of fate, and set in motion a chain of critical events that will forever change the cycle of despair, with all the hopes and dreams of Zeon, and mankind's destiny riding upon the shoulders of a single life._

 **Sorry to any of you Fallout fans who feel insulted, couldn't resist the Ron Perlman narration. I felt it fit so well, since Gundam and Fallout preach practically the same thing about war.**

 **Anyway the date is set in UC 105, around the events of the debatably canon, novel: Hathaway's Flash. FYI it's twenty-six years after the One Year War and nine years after Gundam Unicorn. I'm still new to fanfiction, so if you like this, R &R, and let me know how paragraphs are arranged nowadays. Ciao baby! **


	2. Chapter 1: Stardust Dreams

**Chapter 1: Stardust Dreams**

 **Well, here you got it, the first chapter in this epic saga, folks, enjoy!**

 **PS. I might not use date and time for the rest of the story.**

 _ **February 15, UC 105**_

 _ **Prometheus Uptown**_

 _ **12: 34 am**_

On top of the roof of a twenty-story building the relative silence was broken by the thump of a pair of feet landing. A young man who looked to be in his teens or twenties rolled himself on contact with the roof to cushion the landing from his jump. Channeling the momentum he rolled back onto his feet and lunged forward, resuming his running.

He wore black cargo pants with matching tennis. On his torso he wore a black polyester jacket with a black knit cap on his head, and a mouth mask to ostensibly "protect his allergic lungs from the unclean air."

Maintaining his pace he proceeded to free-run from building to building, vaulting over AC units, and ducking under wind tunnels.

There was a taller building up ahead by just one story, but he wasn't fazed in the least, and for two reasons. One, there was a fire escape to compensate, and two, this was his delivery site.

He looked down into the alley and saw what was likely his client eating a bagel with a cream cheese spreading. The client in question was a woman in a green sweater and a pair of black jeans. She wore spy shades which were so conspicuous it was a little funny, and her hair was shoulder-length blonde. Given the shady nature of his clients, he doubted that was her natural hair color.

Jumping to the fire escape he grabbed the bottom of the sixth platform with perfect timing and swung onto the fifth floor platform with a loud metallic thud.

Taking a second look down at his client, he saw to his amusement that the metallic thumping of his landing had really caught her off guard, because he noticed her fumbling with her bagel narrowly keeping it from being shared with the roaches on the concrete floor.

Climbing down the last set of stairs on the building, he power-walked up to her. "Excuse me, who ordered the urban ninja express delivery." "Right on cue," the woman replied with a hint of embarrassment at being jumped by his loud arrival. "Then you know the deal: you got the cash, you get the goods." Promptly, the woman responded by pulling a wad of cash out of her right pocket. The man pulled out a thumb drive. The two shady people simultaneously handed their trade items slowly and carefully to discourage any temptation of betrayal and pocketed their received bargains. The boy took the money and the woman the thumb drive. "Remember we never met," cautioned the boy while backing away.

Looking around to make sure no one had been eavesdropping; he ran back up the fire escape and leaped from the seventh floor level back onto the adjacent rooftop and took off not even bothering with a backward glance. It was time to get back to his boss and tell him of a job well done.

Prometheus Central Park

1:23 pm

The Prometheus Central Park was built for the same purpose as its counterpart in Manhattan, New York. It provided a minty-scented break from the dull and sometimes depressing atmosphere of the asphalt jungle, and a perfect place for illicit activity given the right place and time.

Here was a good a time for the woman who earlier had made a lucrative deal with a young man with a love for parkour get to work on her assigned task. Under the shadow of a grove of bushes and trees she shed her blonde wig revealing her true short, red hair parted from the middle. Leaving the protection of the forest's shadow she made her way to a bench in one of the park's courtyards and sat on it comfortably. Taking out a laptop from her brown leather purse she booted it up and inserted the thumb drive into a USB port. She opened the thumb drive in the file menu and downloaded its contents. When she opened the data file she saw cargo manifests and transport schedules for the latest mobile suits. Nearly a year of being a sleeper agent had finally paid off; this was it; this was what her organization was after. Reaching into her pocket she pulled out a cell phone dialing a contact labeled "Red Wolf." The phone line picked up and a male voice answered.

"You have reached the Anaheim Electronics's engineering consulting firm," said a male voice on the other end. "Your sweet vixen is calling to confirm that your delivery of "red orchids" will arrive on schedule," she seductively spoke "All that's left is our "weasel." "Good work my sweet vixen," responded the male voice, presumably belonging to Red Wolf. "Wait for "Silver Hound," he'll undoubtedly have one ready. I'll be standing by for the delivery." "Pleasure doing business with you sir," said "Vixen." With her clandestine conversation over she hung up her phone, shut off and closed her laptop and slid it back in her purse. Once the operation would begin, there would be no room for error.

Downtown Prometheus; unknown alley

1:40

"850 gora for seven deliveries this week without a hitch, Janny boy," a middle-aged man of African descent wearing a checkered, button-up shirt, blue jeans and news cap handed a wad of cash to the parkour boy. "Thanks Johnny English," he retorted playfully in a faux upper-class British accent.

To the casual observer it would've seemed like an uncouth exchange between two lowlifes whose relationship had as much value as the wad of cash in the boy's hands, but that wasn't the case. Their apparent rudeness was in fact a covert display of respect.

The man whom "Janny" dubbed "Johnny English" was a man of business, very shady business that didn't leave much room for social interaction beyond the role of the his taskmaster.

What business you ask? "Janny" or Jan as he liked to be called for short, was a free running courier, a "parkourier" if you will? He made his living delivering envelopes, disks, flash drives letters and small packages to any sort of questionable clients around Prometheus.

In a colony that served as headquarters to many major businesses in space, businessmen were willing to pay through the nose to keep their company's secrets of success untouched by the dirty hand of plagiarism.

Most of the tall buildings on Prometheus were tightly packed and under constant construction, which made the cityscape a playground for parkour enthusiasts. Within just a few weeks after the colony's construction was complete, street-running had become a popular thrill sport for the youth population on Prometheus, who were eager to escape the urban environment's oppressively dull, atmosphere. These people became known as "roof-runners," or more derogatorily, "roof-rats."

Businessmen being ever so savvy made deals with free-runners to transport their messages and business data safely around uptown centers in the colony. However as free-running became more popular as an occupation for youth they expanded their services to seedier clients and employers.

English was an information broker and Janny's highest rated employer.

"Remember, we never met," whispered English.

The boy's eyes narrowed into a look of amusement with a slight grin to match, and then his expression made a full one-eighty. "Don't know who you are, but you should stick to your ghetto space nigga."

Turning around Jan walked away. He didn't mean to insult English, but in an illegal occupation such as his, a façade of disrespect and ignorance was considered proper etiquette. Such precautions meant pulling a good act to the point of warping one's personality to avoid rotting in a charming little cell on the colonial penitentiary.

While he had grown accustomed to the thug life since the first few months of his employment, at times it felt enjoyable, speaking his mind, talking and acting like a badass when he could get away with it.

Spotting a neon sign leading up to a rooftop on a two story building just a couple feet out of reach, an idea kicked him in the head.

He lunged and ran up the wall just barely a couple feet high enough and grabbed the pole. Hoisting himself up, he gingerly leaned against the wall and grabbed the second pole repeating the process. Now on top of the roof he took off, hopping from building to building, climbing up pipes jumping off ramps or objects used as boosters laid by other roof-runners, or wall running to the other sides.

After traversing his sixth building Jan ran along the wall of a roof, and then jumped sideways to an adjacent fire escape. Walking his way up he came to the top of the roof where he decided to take a breather.

Jan took off his mask and knit cap, revealing his bob-cut hair, brown eyes and bronze-skinned face that had the sly smile of a weasel.

He sat near edge of the building and took in the view of the colony. He could see giant windows that allowed everybody to see the shimmering stars Divided by the windows where tracts of land laid out across the giant can like rugs covered in buildings ranging from minimum few stories to skyscraper height with lily white buildings to give off a sterile, futuristic look that its architects envisioned.

He had been traversing the buildings in the area long enough to see them no differently than stepping stones. He didn't feel fear of heights like he used to when he started this job thanks a "particular gift" of his.

When he first got into roof-running, he felt like some sixth sense was guiding his moves. He was able to "see" the best path to take when making a jump to the next building, simple or complex. He didn't know how to rationalize it. He was either very gifted or had a hyper processing brain, or maybe in a less plausible explanation he was guided by a sixth sense, or as he preferred to call it, a demonic sense. He could've called it a "spider sense," named after a super power belonging to an ever-popular, comic book character, but since his sense could do more than alert him to danger he preferred to call it a demonic sense, which felt more original and with a hardcore ring to it. It felt gratifying to feel superhuman and better than others, not to mention the potential to be feared as the scourge of the streets like any aspiring thug.

It had been a big help when he got into rumbles with cops, other thugs, or "persuading" reluctant clients who tried pay for his services in bullets instead of gora. Whenever there was clear danger he didn't see or an attack was pending, his demonic sense "tingled," with the sound of a high-pitched, chime rattle in reaction to malevolent/hostile intent from people whom were out to get him or kill him.

Whenever he was chased by cops, he could "feel" their malice, and intent, or "see" their fantasies of smashing his jaw, along with their subsequent frustration when he got away. He also sensed the intent to mug or steal from thugs he occasionally encountered or the greed of a customer who had no intention of paying with gora, but with bullets instead. Thankfully with his extra sense he was able to kick their asses to next Tuesday.

He fondly remembered one customer who learned about his gift the hard way; a rather smarmy, yuppie d-bag who tried to take his delivery for free with the help of a compact pistol he had hidden in his pocket. Fortunately thanks to Jan's "demon sense," he saw it coming, and before the arrogant prick of a yuppie could draw, Jansen had him in a tight arm lock that left him crying like a baby. He obviously was a coward, and a spoiled man-brat used to others doing all the muscle work, because Jansen effortlessly manhandled him till he began blubbering like a baby. Under threat of a nearly dislocated forearm, the poor sleazebag had to fork over the cash he owed him and walked away looking as pathetic as the stray dogs that selfish turds like him would leave to suffer in the cold rain. Jan could only imagine what kind of bullshit story he would say to his colleagues to cover the shame of having been owned by a teenager.

"Hey cuate, you done staring off into space," called a Hispanic voice. Jan turned to see a boy close to his age who wore similarly warm and concealing attire.

"You done admiring yourself on all the windows eh, Carlos" he replied with playful sarcasm.

"I never get tired."

Carlos sat down and pulled out a bag of potato chips from his jacket pocket that were flavored with sour cream and cheddar. "All that hopping must give you an appetite. Here dig in. Don't' worry, I got my own refuel pack," he said pulling out a bag of onion ring chips.

The two boys spent the next ten minutes chomping into their snacks, by the time they were nearly finished Carlos chose this as the time to strike up a conversation.

"Still dreaming about leaving the colony," asked Carlos.

"What's it to you? It's not like I plan on wasting the rest of my days on this giant tin can," Jan answered.

"Where you gonna go cuate? You got everything you need right here and the blues gave up looking for you."

"How long until the crime rate goes down, and the blues will desperately need a perp to put behind bars to stay in business," he sarcastically remarked.

"Not likely to happen anytime soon, give or take or take how tough the economy is these days. They've got plenty of other crooks to worry about."

It's not just about getting away from the cops; it's about "finding my wings," in Layman's terms living my life totally free." Jansen replied. "I appreciate what you and the folks at "Sesamo Plaza" have done for me. They've taught me all those life management skills, had me homeschooled, and kept the cops off my ass, etcetera etcetera. But here I'm not truly alive, I'm just surviving; living on borrowed time. And times are gonna change before you see it coming, just ask the Wanderers from that 1970s movie. Their characters got hit with it real hard when old J.F.K. bit the bullet. There's a big world out there waiting for me, and it's not a small world as that saccharine shit, Disney song preaches. Sometimes I think I hear it calling to me."

"Well I don't see much of a way off this "giant tin can without getting nabbed by the blues," said Carlos doubtfully.

"There will be the day for that; it'll be my day to fly. It just hasn't shown itself yet,"

"Or maybe you missed it last minute ago," Carlos wisecracked.

"Carlos," groaned Jansen disapproving of the former's comment. "I'm your cuate; you should be on my side with me in this kind of thing."

"But I'm also looking out for your mental health," countered Carlos.

"Maybe, but I promise you, my chance is gonna come sooner or later," proclaimed Jan vehemently.

"Is there no talking you out of it? God you got a serious, learning disability, you know that," said Carlos.

But Jansen came back at him, "This coming from a dork who could only get attention with his really bad puns in elementary."

"Touché," admitted Carlos defeated.

"That makes us even steven," declared Jan triumphantly.

Suddenly the two boys heard an adorable J-pop, ringtone from Carlos's pocket. "Just wild beat communication, ame ni utare naga-,"

Carlos whipped out his phone and hit the answer button. "Si (Yes) . . . Yea I'll be there soon, later." Carlos hung up, "Duty calls cuate," said Carlos.

"What's the gig," asked Jan. "Delivery in the financial district," Carlos answered.

Both boys got up ready to head for their respective destinations. "See you at the apartment Carlos."

"Smooth sailing Jan," and the boys went their separate ways, free-running across the urban canopy like grasshoppers in a summer breeze.

Prometheus Central Park

2:34 pm

"Vixen," as the mystery women was identified was sitting on a park bench waiting for a contact. She had nearly all the kinks in her plan worked out, except one. Her contact had the solution.

She could hear footsteps with hard-soled shoes on the brick floor approaching and turned to face a grey haired man of Japanese descent in a white suit.

"Hiya toots, you look lonely, mind if I keep you company," he asked flirtatiously.

"Sure," she answered. "But be careful where you put your pinkies, or you'll be counting how many you have left."

The man chuckled at the warning, but he knew it wasn't a bluff.

"So my lovely vixen," He sat and leaned lewdly towards her ear so in faux-courtship. "How's the delivery of "red orchids," he whispered.

Vixen turned to lean in and whisper in his ear. "The delivery went on schedule, if a few minutes early. The data has been sent to my "clients." They'll arrive at the end of this week to "receive the package." There is only one ingredient left for a successful transaction. I suppose you have it ready."

The grey-haired man leaned back into her ear again to whisper. "That last ingredient you need is a "weasel," and a very eager one which I already got covered, in fact you just met him this morning," the man answered.

He brought up a data pad. He turned it on and clicked on a file and the screen showed an ID with the image of a boy in his mid to late-teens. He had a bronze skin tone, brown eyes and sandy brown hair in a shaggy shoulder-length, bob cut.

"Here (dramatic pause) is your "weasel" and my part-time sidekick: Jansen Largo, seventeen years old, orphan and runaway from a wicked "Cinderella stepfamily." He's one of the many kids on this colony who makes a living as a parkourier and is considered the very best at it. He's been in the business for almost two years and he's already considered an ace. Apart from leap frogging buildings, he knows how to bypass locks and sneak through vents, the training provided by moi. Give him a map and a ticket into the hangar along with all the tips to dodge all that lax security they got setup, and he'll have no trouble slipping in. He also has fifteen hours in the mobile suit simulator with a little help from "friends" of mine. He's given the cops the slip on plenty of occasions and helped me out of more than a few jams. To top it off he wants off of this tin can. We have a job tomorrow that involves screwing with this colony's politics, we pull it off you'll know he's just the "weasel" you need to make a scene."

"You're idea sounds interesting in theory, but on the cautious side, what reason do you have that me and my clients should be betting the success of the operation on a teenager even he were to succeed," asked Vixen skeptically.

"I'll bet a lot of Federation officers displayed similar skepticism during the One Year war when they found out that the pilots of their toys from the "V Project" were conscripted out of high school, hell they even lacked a driver's permit. Of course you are aware of my "particular" history in that war." Silver Hound proudly smiled at his own comment.

"Too bad you and I weren't exactly celebrities in our respective units," snarked Vixen, killing his buzz. "What makes you think this boy will live up to your bragging?"

"He confided in me once about a "special gift" of his," he started. "When he started training in free running, he was deathly afraid of heights. However, as he practiced at low altitudes he got consistently bolder, or should I say crazier, enough to go to new heights, literal and emotional. He was able to perfectly time and coordinate every jump, every tuck and roll, or grab and swing, almost inhuman if you ask me. He described his gift as "demonic," because he couldn't feel fear as much as most people. He went from pulling off ballsy stunts to beating down street thugs and cops stupid enough to mess with him or somebody he knew, sometimes with rather . . . "chilling" enthusiasm.

However there is the part where you won't believe. I got into trouble once with three sharply-dressed corporate thugs or "muscle suits" as we call them, who suspected me of corporate espionage, when technically I was only stealing data for another of my scandal reports. I was held at gunpoint in an alleyway where they threatened me to hand over my data when the kid jumped them from above with a drop kick, and that's when the fight was on. He struck like lightning at every pressure point, even turning one of their guns on themselves. It was like watching a bull elephant on musth going free-for-all against sports cars.

However one of the goons managed to get to his gun and here is the best part. The muscle suit emptied his entire clip at point blank range, but the kid cartwheeled around him, dodging every bullet until we all heard the sound of a dry click. By the time it was over, all three of the muscle suits were kissing the pavement. "Goon one: had a face that showed what a number a brick wall can do to you in one round of a head-butting contest, goon two had a hole in his shoulder from a stray shot, along with a busted lip and a twisted thigh, oh and goon three; the guy who tried to feed my "boy wonder" lead . . . let's just say the kid put his "primary weapon" out of commission.

And here's where it gets mysterious: when we were removing the evidence of our struggle including our attacker's wardrobe to dissuade them from reporting us, I noticed that the wall which took all the bullets in the kids place had only five bullet holes when there should've been nine. Call me crazy, but I'm familiar with the model of gun that the muscle suit used along with the number of bullets in the clip, but it's almost like . . . four-ninths of the bullets never made it far out of the barrel."

Vixen eyes widened a little behind her shades at the statement, curious as she was doubtful as the man continued.

"Many skeptics like you would call all those shenanigans luck, very ridiculous luck. So lucky, I doubt you'd believe what else I'd tell you."

"Are you saying that he's . . . ," an awed Vixen paused mid-question.

"No doubt about it, you couldn't have asked for a better "weasel." answered Silver Hound.

Vixen was stumped and lost in thought. What Silver Hound was proposing was crazy. Involving a kid in deadly affairs was not something that would sit well with her moral conscience and his effectiveness would be dubious at best. However years of military experience and historical wisdom within her countered it by reminding her that the pilot of the original Gundam mobile suit in the One Year war and other pilots of subsequent mobile suits bearing the same name throughout history's most recent conflicts were no older, compelling her to consider the possibilities.

New types as quoted by the late Zeon Zum Deikun were "the next stage in human evolution," and in their own sense were crazier than what her conscience objected. If Silver Hound; ace reporter and agent for hire was right, this boy like four others who became famous in the last two decades would be their ace in the hole, if not a miracle. And if he survived, he would be of much more use to her organization than a simple decoy.

After a few long seconds the disguised woman regained her composure and gave a confident smile. "Very well if it's some psychic-powered, paper boy you want us to place our bets on, then we'll trust your judgement that he'll deliver us a miracle should he succeed in tomorrow's delivery."

"In Layman's terms," asked Silver Hound.

"Your proposal is taken into consideration," answered Vixen.

"Well that settles that," said a satisfied Silver Hound. "Now that you know his accolades, I'd recommend you tell your "clients" that your "weasel" is eligible. So be sure to have a warm reception for him in the colony docking bay when they throw their little party."

"Be sure to fetch him the invitation doggy," teased Vixen.

"No problem, he won't be hard to find, he'll be overjoyed when he hears the news." Silver Hound smiled, satisfied with the results of their "business arrangements." Standing up from the bench he glanced backwards at Vixen, "Later toots," he mock-flirted. "You and I ought to get together on the Anaheim Tower in the uptown center."

"I'll give it some thought, until then keep your paws to yourself horn dog especially other skirts," Vixen mock-flirted in return.

"I'll be howling for ya." Silver returned as he walked away, maintaining both their facades.

Vixen grinned underneath her shades as she watched the sharply-dressed form of Silver-Hound strode down the cement path of the park with his hands proudly on his hips and his elbows pointed out so wide they could knock down any unlucky elderly or handicapped citizen from his wheelchair.

"You've got some wily charm, I'll give you that," she thought amusedly. "Too bad for you I'm a committed wife, and not even you or years of pulling an inside-job will make me divorce my husband, much less my "pack" for that matter . . ."

 **And that concludes the first chapter of Dream Zeon. I feel so happy I feel like challenging you readers to a pop quiz called "Analyze the references."**

 **If you can accurately guess or remember what anything from a character, quote or location refers to in any tv show, game, movie or any medium in this fic (intentional or accidental) especially with other Gundam installments, please answer in the reviews section. Hope it isn't too much of a hassle, but it's great to remember the past, even in our pop culture; otherwise we as a species are nothing, but nihilistic pricks.**


	3. Chapter 2: Family Treasures

**Chapter 2: Family Treasures**

 _ **How's it been going everyone, hope the first chapter didn't look like much but you're sure to get you pumped later on. Just as a little heads up there won't be any giant robot, action for the next few chapters and I try to keep the chapters short to maintain the flow as much as possible. However I will promise you plenty of action in the upcoming chapters, they just won't be involve Mobile Suits yet. Ciao**_

* * *

 _ **Sesamo Plaza**_

 _ **3:01 pm**_

As Jansen Largo walked to the edge of the downtown area of the Prometheus city he looked around at all the Earth Federation propaganda posters and billboards everywhere. They said something like "I WANT YOU to join the Earth Federation," or "protect the colonies from Zeon scum."

"Blegh," he gagged in disgust, "Things still haven't changed."

It had been twenty-six years since the One Year War; war that had tainted the human race's ascension to the stars, leaving the space equivalent of the American dream in tatters. After so many wars, and Zeon supposedly beaten for good, life should've returned to a semblance of normalcy after the Laplace Conflict. But nooo, the Feds just had to be dicks.

Fearing another rebellion, they came up with the brilliant idea to suck the colony's pockets dry, creating an economic depression. With all the "Uncle sam," style propaganda decorating the alleys it was hard to believe that the Feds actually cared for progress. No more did Jan or any decent space colonist look up to the Federation as the "good guys" no more.

In hindsight, despite the brutal tradition of colony gassing and droppings, Zeon may have been the better alternative to the corrupt and dirty "gangster," policies of the Federation.

"If Zeon had won, maybe people like me wouldn't be living off the grid like a fugitive . . . which I am, and the economy would be focused on much needed institutions, like social services," grumbled Jansen, blaming the powers that be for his problems. Still, grumbling about it wouldn't change anything.

However on the flip-side, space was now the new Wild West. With the Federation heavily taxing the colonies, a lot of people embraced the outlaw lifestyle, working for organized crime, living dangerously, and making money from flipping off the system. The burgeoning crime syndicates formed in response to the heavy taxes set up clandestine training for their hitmen, spies and roof-runners like Jan.

After turning a corner he came upon a Spanish, colonial-style apartment complex. It had seen better days to say the least, not fancy by spacenoid standards given the general taste for futuristic architecture, but affordable for minimum-wage workers and well maintained. Its entrance had a central courtyard with a nice garden with a fountain that offered a serene atmosphere of comfort to welcome tenants returning home from work.

Walking up the stairs to the third floor, Jansen came to room 315. He had just inserted his room key into the slot when suddenly . . . "Largo," came a sinisterly, low scratchy voice behind him like a stalking wraith. His eyes widened surprised by the voice, but instantly regained his usual smug composure and accompanying smirk knowing who it was.

"Yes Satan," Jansen answered, then turned around to face the no-nonsense, landlord from hell himself: Stan Cortez.

Quickly changing his tune, Jansen began rubbing his head sheepishly. "Oh, sorry sir thought you were somebody else."

"Spare me the wise cracks "Janny" (cough). "Thought you should know rent is two days away."

"Not a problem Senior Cortez," Jansen produced two, one-hundred gora bills between his index and middle finger. "I always place rent as my top priority," he said with a confident smile as Cortez took the rent money and counted it.

Cortez nodded approvingly that it was in the right amount. "Good, keep it that way and I might be happy to give you a once in a lifetime, discount," said Cortez with his slightly threatening tone looking as stoic as ever. "Have a nice day'" and he turned and walked away down the stairs.

Jansen sighed with a mix of annoyance and relief, "One and a half years here and he still hasn't lost that horror movie mojo."

Cortez was your stereotypical "spooky caretaker" that gave you the creeps with his balding head, pointy chin and constantly squinting eyes that pierced like needles right into your soul. Cortez was a "by the book," type of guy; not giving any quarter to anybody behind rent. Despite his comparatively equal stature to Jan, he was stronger than he looked and was not afraid to use the muscles hidden underneath that green sweater he often wore.

Jan learned that fact the easy way one night when two drug-dealing tenants who were short on common sense made the mistake of testing Cortez when the latter came to collect their rent. The next morning Jan watched from an apartment balcony as said losers left the apartment with their packed suitcases, each sporting black eyes, a busted lip and a lot of bruises as souvenirs.

Jan considered it to be good riddance since those guys liked to annoy fellow tenants like him and sometimes make lewd advances on the attractive female residents. But it also served as an unnerving reminder to always be on time for rent, or he'd be out on the streets. And this was the only place where he could trust that nobody would rat him out.

Turning the key with a welcoming click he opened the door to the sanctity of his apartment room.

The apartment interior matched the outside in terms of structure, it wasn't as luxurious as it looked outside, but the accommodations were standard.

It resembled an early twenty-first century house interior for both nostalgic feel and cost effectiveness; it had all the modern amenities, but none of the sterile high-tech looking aesthetics that matched the uptown city buildings.

Jansen made his way to the kitchen counter where he saw a picture frame and picked it up and looked at it, and for the first time in a while, his usual facade of a sly thug was replaced with that of a tender, angsty youth longing for the good old days long behind him.

The picture had the image of a family happily waving farewell to the camera in what was unmistakably a happy moment that was treasured since they left Earth for space. On the left was an exotically beautiful and buxom woman of Filipino ethnicity looking flirtatiously at the camera. She wore an ocean blue front-tie top and near scandalous cutoff, denim shorts that barely extended past her hips. On her head she had black waist-length, hair cascading past her shoulders like a waterfall and the quality of the picture showed off her flawless bronze skin glimmering from the sun. On the right was a handsome Caucasian man wearing white light-weight, fabric khaki pants and a blue tropical, flower button-up, collar shirt. He had sandy brown hair parted on the left with blue eyes adorned with reading glasses and a cleanly shaven face with a toothy smile. However on the man's shoulders was the most touching piece of the picture. Piggybacking on the man's shoulders was a little boy around five to eight years old with bronze skin like the woman, but with a bit, brighter hue and with a brown bob-cut, hair a shade darker than the man. He wore a similar style of shirt except it had killer whales on it (his favorite animal) light brown khaki shorts and velcro sandals with heel straps. Compared to the couple he had the happiest expression of all. His brown eyes gleamed with childish innocence and his mouth cheerily opened as if shouting the three words on the upper right corner of the picture: "Bye bye Coron!"

A sad smile formed on Jansen's lips as he remembered how happy his childhood had been. He was born the son of Terence Largo; an engineer and mobile suit designer for Anaheim Electronics and Maria Torres: the daughter of a fisherman/ tour guide in the Philippine Island of Coron. Jan's father Terence met his mother Maria Torres on a fateful day when he was a college intern getting some hands-on experience at sea that gave him more than he bargained for. A rogue wave had damaged the freighter he was on and forced his ship to dock for repairs at Coron. Terence met Maria at a bar she worked at where he bought a drink from her. Maria was a flirty, fun-loving, vixen who liked to mess with any man she found attractive. With her sly feminine wiles she challenged the nerdy Terence to a drinking game that she predictably won, leaving him feeling embarrassed and challenged. During the rest of Terence's stay in Coron, Maria constantly flirted and got under his skin until she successfully seduced him and took his virginity. But neither of them expected for their feelings to later turn out to be genuine.

They met again when Terence graduated from college and landed an internship on Coron for the local Anaheim Electronics testing facility. They dated for over a year until they reconciled their feelings and eventually married.

Before the One Year War his dad designed amusement park rides and construction vehicles for Anaheim Electronics. After the war Anaheim Electronics acquired all of Zeon's Mobile designing assets and Terence Largo became one of the leading MS designers.

He and his family lived in a pretty neighborhood in Florida, until Jansen turned eight and his dad got a promotion that had them move into space.

Jansen was able to adjust to life in space when he made friends with Carlos Ramirez in his late elementary days and unlike lost people, was amused by his bad puns, but he always missed his old life in the Philippines.

Space colony life was luxurious and carefree as long as there wasn't so much as a spitting contest between Neo Zeon and the Feds.

Just when he turned fourteen, and life seemed to be at its best, it suddenly turned a full one-eighty that ripped his parents from him (he couldn't bear to go back to that fateful day of their deaths), and he became an orphan placed in a rotten foster care system.

The foster care functioned more like an auction for cheapskate taxpayers, selling children to slimy buyers with deep enough pockets, and few, if any of them were child-friendly as Jansen learned the hard way.

The Dicksons: the aptly named foster family he was placed with was what every sane person these days would call the "ideal" American family. They had no love for him at all beyond the monetary perks, if their relationship (or lack thereof) was of any indication. For starters the father, Frank Dickson was a proud Federation military sergeant and a bully, who used Jansen as a punching torso for his aggressive behavior. Occasionally he would practice "instilling military discipline" on Jansen with cruel beatings on the grounds of any perceived, slip-up while ranting at him like he was an underachieving, cadet going through boot camp hazing. Jansen would fight back if he could, he even learned how to dodge from his experience, but being a weak and inexperienced against a seasoned military veteran he would always lose, and not a single one of the beatings would stop until Frank was looming over his curled-up, bruised and blubbering form with a satisfied sneer as if to admire his handiwork, rubbing in his face that he wasn't "man enough." Frank's wife Martha was cold and condescending to the point where Jansen thought she was Lady Tremaine incarnated in real life, and often left him with most of the cleanup duty around the house, while reminding him of his low tier on the family hierarchy. His step-siblings were hardly innocent or sympathetic. There was Rose, the Dickson's ten-year old daughter, and Nathan, their obnoxious seventeen-year old son, both who were practically, spoiled and immature sociopaths in the making. If Frank and Martha were too busy to be tormenting Jansen, their kids would happily take over that shift. He didn't want to think of the humiliating details, but he was cozy with remembering that the slightest protesting was out of the question. If he was told by them to do something embarrassing for their entertainment, he'd have to do it or they would tattle on him, and he didn't want to face either of their nasty parents.

Regardless of his "best" behavior not a single "conversation" ended without any of them muttering offhand racist comments along the line of "snow nigger."

Living under their smelly feet was so bad that after nearly a year of parental abuse, Jansen bought a costume from a dime store with money he had scrounged up from sidewalks, and disappeared under the cover of Halloween night when the locals were trick-or-treating.

He had made it to Carlos Ramon's house where he shared them his horror story.

In better days, parental abuse to the degree he had been through would be reported to the police and social services, and families as "dickish" as the Dicksons (I know, bad pun) would be facing one hell of a lawsuit that would leave their reputation pulverized. But after the last Zeon Rebellion, the Federation, fearing a repeat performance taxed the colonies dirt poor, leaving anyone who didn't have a huge bank account or matching, high status disadvantaged, making the law as it should be zilch, and its enforcers reduced to over-glorified mercenaries for the elite.

In short, the space colonies; the foundation of man's final frontier had been reduced to dystopian fiefdoms with racism treated as a cultural fad along with arbitrary, applications of police brutality.

Jansen spent a couple days sheltered in the Ramon's house until they thankfully referred him to the apartments on Sesamo Plaza where he found himself shelter among a community of minorities who cared for him as though he were family.

The biggest boon he had received however was an encounter at the apartment with the journalist, "spy guy" who went by the name "Alan Ratokie." It was he who and his underground connections who introduced him to the thug-life and with help from the local roof-runner gangs; the world of parkour. For a year he had been trained in espionage, firearm handling martial arts such as Brazilian Jiu-jitsu and Kick-boxing. The thrill of street-running and spying had given him a euphoric high he hadn't experienced since he was orphaned. Thanks to Ratokie's connections and the parkour gang's training he had been slipping into sensitive areas like a roach, beating up street thugs and cops, hopping buildings like a frog on lily pads, even learning to shoot like a cowboy. With two and a half years of experience under his belt he had made a good living off of his illicit occupation.

Still it was ironic to be born into a healthy, caring environment, only to have it all stripped away by some random roll of a die by the bigwigs upstairs, and pressured by those circumstances into becoming an outlaw (not to mention a high-school dropout).

Setting the picture down he tuned back into the present and decided to crash for the rest of the afternoon by playing videogames.

He inserted a disc into the game console slot and ran it.

The game was a tactical third-person shooter known for its Starship Troopers-like premise with an alternate earth setting, carnage with chainsaw bayonets and principally, its "take-cover" mechanics.

He had just reached the third boss level when he heard a knock on his door. Pausing his game he answered the door to find a twelve year-old boy with messy brown hair behind it.

His name was Pedro Manuel; the son of one of the Hispanic families in the apartment complex. Being only twelve- years old, he stood a head shorter than Jan. He looked almost unusually happy today.

"Ola Pedro," Jan greeted sarcastically, feeling awkward at the former's unwelcome happiness that clashed with his relatively, glum mood.

"Hola Senor Jan, we're throwing a barbecue out in the courtyard, wanna come? They got really good food, and if you miss it you'll regret it," He said with an innocently smug, look.

Jan shrugged, "You know me, I wouldn't wanna shame the natives with their hard-earned hospitality, nor would I miss the free meals," he answered casually.

Pedro smiled in response, albeit more sly than usual. Jan didn't need his demonic sense to know something more was up.

Pedro was like most children in the area, always looking for a chance to have fun. However he could also be a little on the manipulative side, having spent his whole live around impoverished folks like him, it was easy for him to know what people wanted, and he liked to screw with people's heads, especially if they were older than him.

"Come on then", he ushered Jan out of his room before he ran off ahead.

Sighing Jan took his keys turned off his game console and locked his room.

For people in low income neighborhoods like Sesamo Plaza, parties and other special events were an occasion that everyone had to cherish like it was their last day on earth. It helped them bond together like family and momentarily lifted the depressing weight off everyone's shoulders in this troubled economy.

Since Jan was considered part of the family it'd be rude to turn them down. It felt corny to say the least, which clashed with his "bad boy" attitude and lifestyle that he loved to wield like a cool gun or sword from an action movie, but still as the folks said, he needed to "pet the dog" now and then and soften up a little or he'd "lose his heart."

Walking down the steps he made his way to the ground floor, where he proceeded to the courtyard where parties were usually held at the apartment.

It was dusk, or actually an artificial one simulated by the colony's artificial environmental simulation to capture the authentic feel of earth.

Above he could see the sections of populated land between the "stargazing" windows lighting up the colony like a Christmas tree as if to flip off the stars outside.

Soon enough he was in the courtyard. The courtyard in question was nearly the size of a soccer field, with a playground for children to play on the left, a swimming pool with a slide nearby, a pond with a fountain at the far right and a barbecue/dining area underneath a veranda in the middle. However around this time it was normally deserted, unless there was a party taking place.

Pity Jan couldn't see a party.

He sighed with disappointment, "Guess Pedro was playing me for a sap, he thought. He was about head back to the apartment, when suddenly the courtyard lights came on, momentarily blinding him to the point where he shut his eyes for protection.

When he got adjusted to the light he was about to break into a run, assuming the boys in blue had caught up to him.

But instead of a demand for surrender he heard a loud, "Surprise!"

When Jan's eyes adjusted to the light he saw the whole residents of the apartment sitting or standing around the picnic table with an assortment of party food on it. "Happy Birthday Jan," cheered everyone in the courtyard.

Jan could only stand there too dumbstruck to process what they just said. "Wha-what? What's the idea of throwing me a surprise party, I was beginning to think you guys sold me to the blues?"

"Ah, did you even check your calendar honey," said a sweet, thick voice from a middle-aged, African-American woman he recognized in the crowd. "This isn't just any party, it's you're birthday." It was Ella Bries, Jan's den mother and the apartment manager.

Jan knew Ella Bries once as a television actress known for starring in TV dramas Jan had watched with his family as a kid. She was a kind and nurturing soul who gave life lessons to every wounded or troubled spirit in sight. She had retired from acting when vulgar reality shows had all but taken over the airwaves and settled down as manager of the apartment. Ella had been a blessing to the neighborhood since then. Described as having a heart purer than ten saints, she was a celeb among celebs, being as compassionate and caring as her on screen acting. When Jan first arrived at the apartment she took him to her own personal makeshift clinic to treat the injuries he received from the Dickson's treatment, physical and emotional, though Jan was at first, naturally embarrassed at being pitied as any abuse victim. As he got cozy with apartment life and made a good living from danger, Ella gave him "live-alone" lessons and even showed him the same tender care she had shown characters on her shows. In fact she had been a great mother figure to him, and no orphan could ever ask anything more. It was kind of weird though, being adopted by someone you only knew on TV, only to find that their personality and acting were practically one and the same, but nevertheless heartwarming.

"My birthday," Jan asked still processing the message.

"That's right," confirmed Samuel Manuel. "You've just turned seventeen."

Jan could not believe it; he had been so wrapped up in his lucrative lifestyle he had forgotten to appreciate the cushier things in life. Like every kid who had humble beginnings he had very fun birthday parties, but being a teenager made it feel "outgrown." It didn't help that being in a low social standing made the idea of celebrating the day you get one year older seem pointless.

"You set this all up for me," asked Jan still perplexed that they could've spent their hard-earned cash on a future for their children.

"Of course honey," said Ella. Come on and join us before the food gets cold.

Jan went over to the table and joined everyone in the feast of barbecue ribs and hamburgers. The food was good he had some nice chats with apartment residents, even Stan Cortez.

Stan was a creepy guy Jan would avoid like the plague, unless he was paying rent. But this was a special day, and no one should be left out of the fun. Stan in a rare moment of weakness shed his gruff and creepy demeanor and told him his story. He revealed that the reason for his fighting prowess he had "demonstrated" on the aforementioned deadbeats was that he had once served in the Federation military during the One Year war as a drill sergeant, watching cadets like a hawk and always keeping them in line. While that explained his trademark accusatory glare that made people nervous around him, the reason for his grumpy and bitter demeanor was because a woman he fancied and dated for a year fell out of love for him. However tragedy struck like lightning when he learned that she had been murdered by her another admirer in a drunken fit, and he was more than happy to serve jury duty at his ex's murderer's trial adding fuel to the fires of prosecution then moved on to another woman that he later married. The marriage was healthy but he didn't loved her as much as his ex, but like a good patriot he stayed as faithful to her as possible. By the time his kids had finished college, his wife had died of brain cancer. In this moment Jan felt a twinge of sympathy for the old veteran, while his life wasn't exceptionally unhappy by any means it just wasn't satisfying for him.

After he was done with his food, he went over to Ella Reese who was sitting on the bench facing the pond where she usually fed the resident ducks.

"Ella I'm honestly happy you guys remembered my birthday, but why go through the trouble of throwing a party? It's not like you don't have better things to spend them on, like school or college tuition. I mean, seriously how hard do you work to put food on the table.

"Jan, nothing is too hard for us parents to work for. A break like this doesn't just relief our stress it relieves yours and our children's stress as well so grow up with a healthy soul. Besides, you gotta appreciate the day you were born, we all have to. Just because were down in the dumps because some fat cats suck our piggy banks almost dry, it don't mean we ain't special. Were just in a bad chapter of life, and a life celebrated is a life not wasted."

She then noticed Jan staring into the artificial sky of the O'Neil cylinder. "Still dreaming about going up into space Luke Skywalker?"

"That's a trick-question Obi-Wan," quipped Jan.

"I know how you feel, you just wanna be flapping free as a bird honey."

"It's ironic that technically we're already in space looking for a new kind of freedom, and yet we still feel like inmates."

"Which is why you're always looking at the sky with envy Jan. You know like some children I enjoyed the sight of the stars, usually for how brightly they shined. But nowadays we appreciate them for what they symbolically mean to us. When I was in my mid-single digits my ma told me that stars were unique like every human being, and had a special purpose in the cosmos that no force could contain. And when they shined they left a lasting impression on us and the universe, just like a great artist, politician, philosopher or celebrities in general, like me.

"I suppose that's why they call you actors and actresses stars," Jan commented, "Because your fame outshines everybody."

"Only in the commercial sense honey, celebs only shine as much as the dough they rake in for their pimp managers and how much people like them for how "perfect" they look compared to everyone else."

"Well philosophically speaking, you still shine for all the folks around here," encouraged Jan. "Fuck all those Hollywood bigwigs, draining people dry of their brightness. You made the right choice quitting while you still had your "halo" on your head."

"Couldn't be truer, I'd sure stick out like a nun in all those vulgar, reality shows."

Ella's words were angelic, soothing the gloomy disposition in Jan's depressed heart which he often nursed with thrills and adrenaline rushes.

Reflecting on his own significance in the cosmos Jan wondered that if he was a star, he wasn't shining bright enough to make any difference in the grand design, and it didn't look like he would shine anytime soon. The only thing that made him shine the faintest bit was his uncanny skill at parkour.

"Oy Jan, Ella," yelled an anxious Pedro running up.

"The cake's ready, come on birthday boy, hurry before somebody licks the frosting," said in a teasing tune.

Heading back to the veranda Jan and Ella sat at the dining table and watched as Juanita, Pedro's mother and the local town baker set the cake on the table. It was a chocolate chip cookie dough flavor with just the right amount of frosting to decorate and lit candles waiting to be blown out.

"Alright Jan, time to make a wish," said Ella.

Jan shrugged always hating to look corny and contrasting to his "bad boy" image and just casually blew out the candles without a word (everyone knew his wish, and felt it was too pure to be voiced out loud).

* * *

(Unknown location)

In an elegant-looking quarters obscured by window blinds, two female silhouettes with shoulder-length hair, both sharing an almost identical style stood facing each other from behind a curtain. One figure was that of a woman estimated to be in her thirties-forties. The other was a teenager who stood a head shorter.

"I have another present for you dear; the one I was saving for last."

She handed the girl a giftwrapped box to the girl who proceeded to unwrap it, knowing the content of the gift would be very special.

The girl gasped with delight when saw what was inside and held the gift in her hands with utmost admiration. It was a mask that brought to mind a rather infamous icon of history; a man whose mobile suit skills and exploits were legendary.

"It looks like his mask!"

"Put it on dear."

The girl slipped the mask on and the mother smiled. The mask was a perfect fit, and the girl smiled proudly when she looked in a hand-held mirror.

"You look just like him."

"I'll more than look like him mom, I will be better than him."

"I know dear, I know you will better than your father."

"Thank you so much, mom I promise to make you proud, I'll make everyone proud! When they see me with this mask they'll know my father's spirit lives in me."

The mother and daughter wrapped their arms around each other in an affectionate embrace, "Happy birthday, my Charlene."

* * *

 _ **Nothing like a heartwarming moment before the storm.**_

 _ **Time for a little info dump. After the Republic of Zeon threw in the towel along with its independence, the lack of competition put the Federation on a power high. And that's where this fic coincides with the Gundam novel, "Hathaway's Flash." Among the sick "man hunting" games the Feddie brass set up in said novel, they taxed the colonies into poverty to dissuade another "Zeon" rebellion as well as maintain earth's dominance. In hindsight it was a bad idea, (oppressive policies, aren't they all) since a considerable number of the colonists decided to indirectly resist by going criminal after protests invited only police batons. Since then, the colonies have a massive network of criminal activities from street level to white-collar. Be sure to review and point out whatever typos and inconsistencies you find and don't forget "spot the references," please.**_


	4. Chapter 3: The Election Job

**Chapter 3: The Election Job**

 _ **Hiya folks, on to my mock trivia on references, it's answer time!**_

 _ **Carlos Ramon: He's that Carlos from the Magic School Bus show, known for his really bad puns.**_

 _ **Ella Bries: Della Reese who is known for her role in the television drama: "Touched by an Angel."**_

 _ **English is a reference to the black prisoner of the same name who befriended Clint Eastwood when he was an inmate in the Alcatraz film.**_

 _ **Jansen Largo: He's what happens when you give a teenage Susumu Sazaki the spy skills of Garrod Ran from Gundam X.**_

 _ **If it weren't obvious Stan Cortez is Mr. Shickadance, the landlord who gets headaches from a certain "pet detective," whom in another life would've dealt with his creepier landlord with magical Norse mask that gives him cartoon powers.**_

 **BTW, thankyou Nightwing Aurora for following my story, I promise you won't regret it. Please be sure to review and tell me what you like about it.**

* * *

 **Jan 2, UC 105**

 **Sat 9:34 AM**

 **Unknown Alley**

For a man named Alan Ratokie, known yesterday by the name of "Silver Hound," the spy/journalist business had been a dangerous but thrilling career that paid well and came with plenty of perks. The biggest perk that trumped everything however was making his mark on history like a Hollywood celeb's handprint on the pavement in front of Grauman's Chinese theater. History always needed someone to experience it up close and personal to keep the books honest. Living like a swashbuckler also made him feel alive and significant in the grand scheme of things. Right now he was pressed for a new job, one that would have him set for a while and he needed a little help for it.

He heard a thump of a familiar pair of shoes and turned to see none other than Jansen Largo.

"Hiya boss, heard you needed your trusty sidekick for a new job, and it's big I hear."

"Right you are kiddo, confirmed Ratokie. "What we've got here is a job that concerns the recent mayoral election. I'm sure you're familiar with Mayor Stanley Grugen; that fat leech whose been sucking this can dry and putting the middle class on the endangered species list, bet you'd love to see him booted off his throne."

"More like take a dumpster dive where he belongs, how you figure we make sure of that," Jan asked.

According to our friend English there's a possibility the election is rigged. We may not stop the rigging, but we can make sure the election stays honest enough to elect a more forward thinking mayor, if we can get some evidence or dirt on him; the kind that will make him squirm."

"That's where I come in I suppose?"

"Damn right, your job is to surf his web and find his sunken treasure beneath the waves."

"Only one question boss, where's the tools of the trade?"

"Right here boy," Ratokie produced an earpiece, walkie talkie, a thumb drive and a data phone with a charge cord (it was more than a charge cord, but casual observer was meant to think it was.)

A devilish smirk formed on Jan's face. "Now were talking."

 **10:34 AM**

 **621 Nicolls Road, High Point**

A leathery thump followed by a roll to cushion the landing, and Jan was on top of Grugen's office building. Walking over to the roof entrance with an electronic lock, Jan pulled Ratokie's data phone out of his pocket and jacked it into the lock's socket.

When he opened the phone, Jan scrolled left twice on its screen and found an app icon that resembled a sinister parody of Mickey Mouse dressed in a stereotypical, comic villain, costume with a bomb emblem on its chest. He tapped the icon and a loading screen showed up filling a memory bar like an hourglass. Once it filled, a page appeared titled "Cracker Jack." Cracker Jack was a hacking software, the latest on the black market. It uploaded a virus known as the bane of electronic and digital security systems such as looping camera footage shutting off tripwires and penetrating firewalls. Only the most expensive cyber-security offered protection against it. He typed in an override command and was congratulated by a green light on the lock indicating his access.

Quietly entering he slipped in through the ventilation room then he opened a vent grate with a shortscrewdriver.

Then he crawled through the vents while using the digital map Ratokie had uploaded to the phone to navigate to the right room.

He had to climb up an elevation in the vent tunnel once by removing his shoes and climbing barefoot to gain the friction his shoes didn't have. But he also made sure to tie said shoes by their laces around his ankles so he wouldn't lose them.

After reaching the top of the elevation and crawling over a couple feet and rounding a corner, he came to a grating just above Mayor Grugen's office. It was vacant and empty with no security cameras to protect the mayor's privacy, it was Saturday after all and security was a bit lax.

Jan unscrewed the vent grating and dropped in, and then he got cozy in the ridiculously expensive, leather chair. One could only wonder how much of the colony's overtaxed money was used to buy it.

He booted up the computer and jacked his data phone and thumb drive into the CPU.

"O.K. boss, I'm at his computer, all it asks is the magic word."

"The magic word is "iluvmonroe, no space, no capital, zip, and by the way "love" is spelled with a capital, L-U-V."

Jan entered the password and found himself inside Grugen's desktop.

He looked around the desktop and brought up Grugen's e-mail account. He searched through the inbox and trash sections of the mail site for any suspicious looking message, but his search came up nil.

"Weasel to Silver Hound, I gotta give Grugen credit, he knows better than to leave evidence lying around for the internet to see," he sighed with disappointment for Ratokie to hear.

"Keep searching through his files, he has to have information to keep track of his election plans."

Jan looked across the screen for over half an hour, until he came upon a suspicious enough looking file. He opened the file, but it was encrypted. He tried using the same password to access, but it got rejected. Then he tried uploading the Cracker Jack program, but only the most expensive security systems could rebuff it, and Grugen's cyber security happened to be one of them.

"Damn," he knocked his head against the keyboard in a defeat.

He had just about given up when suddenly, he heard voices, voices from several people that weren't in the room, spamming his head. He could hear a dozen voices that sounded like conversations that took place in this very room. Only one voice was consistently the same, talking about political subjects, such as taxes and press coverage. However when it reached the awful subject of "keeping niggers in their ghettos," Jan realized it was Grugen's voice. His demonic sense had never done that before. First he had superhuman reflexes and coordination, but now he could turn places of interest into vocalized museums? He needed professional help.

Suddenly he heard a quote from Grugen's voice, a quote that sounded like a something to do with mirrors, but with a different vowel that brought internet slang to mind. Then the words abruptly "spelled" themselves out in front of him. "ROFLection," that had to be it; that was the password! Jan snickered at the absurdity of the password's meaning.

"Heh, Grugen you walking snot-bucket, could you be more cocky than this."

Entering the password he was immediately granted access. He opened the file and saw IDs belonging to what appeared to be various city officials. Apparently these men were benefactors of Grugen, on his bribe payroll or intimidation racket, but that was barely scratching the surface. Jan looked into other file folders. In them he saw over three-thousand people singled out for disenfranchised voting, including the Sesamo Plaza apartment residents, and himself. He also looked in another file with forged ID's of people plotting voter impersonation.

Jan smiled with jubilance, this was all the evidence he needed to keep Grugen sitting on his throne for another term. Suddenly his earpiece beeped.

"Silver Hound to Weasel, did you get some hard evidence?"

"Damn, right I did! Apparently Grugen's got a lot of city officials in his pocket, voter impersonation, and plenty of disenfranchised voters including moi."

"How did you get it," asked Ratokie.

"I found a suspicious-looking file, but it was encrypted even Cracker Jack, at first."

"At first," asked Ratokie. "You cracked the code, without even knowing it or without using Cracker Jack?"

"Yep, believe it or not, I got it right down to the exact grammar and spelling. I don't know how exactly, it's either a miracle or my demon sense at work, but the password just "typed" itself into my head."

"Interesting, looks your gift is getting bet- . . . uh oh."

"Uh oh? Talk to me boss that phrase always means bad news."

"It's the blues, they're onto you!"

"What, how'd they know?!"

"Grugen's computer must've been wired to some silent alarm set in his absence. Blues are gathering outside the building, they've blocked every exit on the ground floor, and the best part, they're sending in SCS."

"SCS, all this for surfing the Mayor's personal website," scoffed Jan, "Just keeps, getting better, the pig man sure payed through the nose to keep his secrets safe."

"Just get the data and amscray."

"Roger Silver Hound, on the double," Jan quickly grabbed the data with the mouse and dragged it to his thumb drive window and began the transfer process, it would take a while to fully download though.

Outside the office building, a police barricade had been formed to secure all possible exits. Nearly half of Prometheus's police force had shown up to contain any possible leak that would mean a scandalous blow to an important city official.

A limo drove up to the barricade and out stepped an obese middle-aged and balding, man in a gray suit. He swaggered up to the police chief. "Chief Redmond, what's this I hear about a breach in my office!?"

"The exact details are unknown Mayor Grugen, sir, but apparently there's a hacker looking through your database," answered Redmond.

"What," Grugen was flabbergasted.

"Well why haven't you busted in and arrested that street punk. He is obviously working for my rival candidate! He's looking for some dirt to use against me in the election, I know he is!"

The Chief put a hand on his shoulder to calm Grugen down and answered, "Apparently were dealing with a roof-runner, sir."

The mayor, already stressed from his jeopardized career wasn't having it, "Dammit, I don't care who you're dealing with, or what it takes, just catch that roof-rat, or it's your job!"

Just then a shiny, white sports car pulled up and out of it stepped an impeccably handsome, white-suited man in shades, whose sharpness was contrasted by his oddly, green hair. "Mayor Grugen," the man addressed, flashing an ID in his open wallet (stereotypical, agent's introduction), "I'm agent Hallmark with SCS regional bureau. My superiors sent me to look into these matters."

Sarcastically, the Mayor sighed, far from relieved, "Well how about that, the regional governor sends me their angel to bring me and my electoral campaign salvation. So what's your sermon agent?"

"My professional analysis is that you're dealing with a highly skilled and particularly, dangerous roof-runner. If you need me to apprehend him, I'll require command of all available police forces on this colony, and the liberal application of lethal force when deemed necessary, all this angel requires is your blessing."

Mayor Stanley Grugen had a momentary pause of consideration, his campaign was in jeopardy, and he had to stop the perp from getting away no matter what to save face. However, giving power to a stranger who does things the hard way was a gamble. The city would likely be torn apart in a deadly, game of cat-and-mouse beyond his tolerance. "Reliable" tax-payers would likely be injured or killed, and there'd be a considerable amount of property damage to the surrounding area. Then again, as far as the public was be concerned, he was a politician who was only guilty of taking the leashes off the local, guard dogs, and agent "green hair," would be guilty of the execution of the chase. If anything went wrong, he'd at least have a few scapegoats to hide behind. With a bit of reluctance, the mayor answered, "Well then, agent Hallmark, you are authorized to use any means necessary to catch that roof-rat and retrieve whatever dirt he has on me, but if I get complaints on how you do your job, you and SCS will be taking most of the heat for it."

"I understand sir," said Hallmark.

A few moments later four APCs drove up and men in SWAT-like, kevlar armor poured out, toting assault rifles, SMGs and shotguns. They were SCS: Special Colonial Security, aka Sec Troops. The troopers carefully moved into the building intent on denying their prey a chance of escape. Despite the odds looking their favor, Hallmark frowned and walked up to the shade wearing, Captain with a buzz-cut who was smoking a cigarette.

"Captain William Durmov," hailed Hallmark, "I would like to ask, what is your plan for apprehending the roof-runner?"

Durmov simply scoffed at the question, "Who do you think you're talking to, agent," he smugly retorted not bothering to hide his cockiness. "We've got every exit covered, every door, every staircase, elevator, air vent, laundry chute, and garbage chute. No way is he getting out. In fact there are only two ways out, in handcuffs or in a body bag. Besides catching roof-rats ain't nothing remarkable, in my career I barred up over two-dozen roof-rats dumb enough to mess with politics."

Hallmark wasn't impressed by Durmov's last comment, "If that is true, I must assure you they are nothing like the one loose inside the mayor's office, which is why I'm here Captain, to offer you most, helpful advice for your career and your men's sake."

Durmov however didn't like being nagged like a petulant child. "I can't believe this, is command headquarters really scared of a kid just because he busted in right under office security's noses. He's trapped like a rat; my men are more than enough for one kid."

But Durmov's bluff didn't faze Hallmark in the slightest, and the latter brutally came back at him in a way that shocked him, "Your men are already on their way to the hospital, and some to the morgue at the hands of a kid."

* * *

 _ **Time for a little info dump about the lore I just stretched.**_

 _ **SCS: Special Colonial Security: a commando-style police/counter-terrorist force formed in UC 93 after the Second Neo Zeon War as an alternative to another Titans task force. It was modeled after similar pre-space era, organizations such as America's SWAT, Japan's SAT and Germany's GSG9. Since then it had proven itself the most effective defense measure against any domestic crisis on the colonies that didn't involve mobile suits, so don't expect them to take on any Titans/A-Laws role.**_

 _ **And yes, this chapter's plot is kinda inspired by the 2016 election, not to mention this was written before the reports of Russia hacking/rigging the election in Donald Trump's favor (BTW Mayor Grugen is no way a reference or expy to Donald Trump himself in case you got the wrong idea). Life imitates art, go figure. Anyway reviews are welcome.**_

 _ **As for Jan's newtype abilities; they are very developed and sometimes do things for him on a subconcious cue. In this case he's briefly gained a shot of psychometry: a psychic ability to see the history of objects ala Stephen King's "The Dead Zone." Next three chapters you are going to see how badass a Newtype can be without a Mobile Suit.**_


	5. Chapter 4: Shattered Mirrors

**Chapter 4: Shattered Mirrors**

 **This it people! Ever wonder how badass a newtype can be without a giant robot? Here it is!**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

SCS sergeant Marlon Bixter and a squad of four men gathered against the door of the mayor's office. Bashing the door open was always the first thing that came to a hot-blooded officer's mind when trying to apprehend a felon in a police entry procedure. But such a medieval, siege tactic nowadays was frowned upon as vandalism and largely out of the question, not to mention impractical when said door was accessed only via code. On his orders one of the SCS Troopers typed in the access code given by the mayor on the office door, panel. Once they heard the satisfying click of an unlocked door, Sgt. Bixter gave the "proceed" hand signal.

"SCS FREEZE," Bixter shouted, but the room was empty. They searched the whole room with their guns aimed in sync with their eyes, looking for any sign that the suspect could still be around.

"Sarge, up there," indicated an SCS Trooper, pointing to the open vent on the ceiling, "he's in the vent!"

Bixter grabbed his radio, "Second squad, monitor the vents, suspect is taking the vent tunnels leading out of this building, move to intercept all possible exits, over!"

"Yes sir," replied the SCS trooper on the other end.

Bixter then walked behind the desk and facing the window overlooking the city, then he turned to the active computer in the process of downloading files he was obliged not to look at. Then he looked to his left at the CPU, and saw a thumb drive plugged into it, the perp still had to be here. If he wasn't done downloading negatives on the Mayor, then he had to come back to get his drive. He gave out orders to the squad in the office.

"Squad, secure this area; watch this place until further-OOoooof!"

Suddenly Bixter felt the sensation of a miniature freight train ramming into his balls, sending a paralyzing, sting of pain to his system. As he gasped in agony he looked beneath him and saw to his surprise, a sneaker planted on his crotch beneath his armor and more to the point, the roof-rat he was looking for. He had been hiding under the desk and under his crotch!

Before Bixter could recover from the agony administered to his groin, the roof-rat in a display of amazing reflexes quickly got up, grabbed Bixter, swung behind him as a shield and drew his handgun from his holster.

In a rondo of gunshots several, Sec Troopers fell to the floor clutching their thighs and gun arms.

The third trooper to have his thighs blown out had the ill-fortune of leaving his finger on the trigger, with the safety off! As he fell to the floor, his SMG fired wildly from his reflexive, contraction and the fourth member of Bixter's squad literally dropped dead from a stray bullet between his eyes at a low angle beneath his helmet.

Jan winced nervously at the freshly made, corpse, "Boy I'm in for it now," he thought. Brutalizing law enforcement was an "okay" thing in today's criminal code, as long as said criminals could get away and said lawmen were only a few injuries shy of the morgue, but killing them however was a big no-no. Jan felt no remorse for the Sec Trooper's death, only that he had a few pounds heavier a charge against him adding to breaking into the Mayor's office and swiping his computer data. Given the sorry state of society and the arbitrary law system set by the Federation over the colonies, it was the rich's word against the poor, and it made no difference that it was an accident.

Jan suspended his dismay and again tuned back to the present channel as he had been trained to do.

Just when Sergeant Bixter had recovered from his aching lower organs, he was treated to another dose of pain when both of his own thighs were blown out, then Jan pushed him onto the desk where he proceeded to shoot both his unprotected humerus, bones; Bixter wouldn't be using those arms for a while.

Blocking out Bixter's wails of agony, Jan pushed the now disabled sergeant to the floor and picked up his assault rifle. Taking the rifle he set to semi-auto and shot the rest of the arms and thighs of every downed SCS officer, as well as relieving them of their guns so they wouldn't be of any threat. Then he ran to the door, closed it and barricaded it toppling an adjacent file cabinet.

Taking one of the downed trooper's SMGs he set it to full-auto, he perforated the window in an arch shape that was nearly twice his size, weakening it, and then he kicked the mayor's expensive, leather swivel chair at the window and watched it shatter, while the chair fell thirty stories to the street below. Jan could "hear" the anguished voice of the chair's owner.

Ignoring the anguished, moaning of the downed SCS troopers on the floor he looked back at the computer, the down load was complete.

Then a furious pounding came at the door, "SCS, OPEN UP NOW!" The SCS troops on the other side had undoubtedly heard the gunshots and were pretty pissed now that they figured what had happened to their comrades.

Now that the system was done copying all the files onto to the data phone, Jan removed the thumb drive from the computer and put it into his pocket. Then he caught a whiff of a burning scent accompanied by a crackling sound, and instinctively turned to the door, seeing the troopers cutting their way through it with a cutting torch and pretty fast. He imagined said torch's heat output to be the equivalent to a human-sized MS, beam saber.

With his work here done and his escape prepared, Jan pushed the Mayor's desk closer to the edge of the big gaping hole he had made in the window intending to use it as a booster, backed against the wall left of the nearly opened door and broke into a sprint.

The top half of the door burst open and two angry SCS Troopers unloaded their guns into the room with bullets flying on full-auto bursts.

Time seemed to slow for Jan as he "felt" the bullet trajectories with each pull of the trigger, he kept his back angled low, missing every bullet as he angled his body in a zigzag pattern for each volley of bullets headed his way. Then he hopped onto the desk and with a great heave, leaped out of the broken, window and found himself soaring over the street.

At the bottom ground, Hallmark, Durmov and Grugen, (the latter still smarting over the fate of his cushy chair) could only watch in awe as Jan practically high flew right over their heads. While Grugen and Durmov looked with their mouths agape (the latter's cigarette falling out of his mouth), Hallmark remained stoic and simply watched with the fascination of a naturalist studying a rare animal species.

After what seemed like five minutes Jan landed on the roof of the adjacent building and rolled with practiced ease to cushion the fall.

Jan got up to his feet and looked back at the broken window he had just dived out of. "YEESS," hissed Jan with satisfaction and relief, but it was too early to celebrate. Knowing more trouble was coming he sprinted away. Jan turned on his headset, "Weasel to Silver Hound, I'm out of the building with the data, but not exactly home free."

"Better hurry, SCS choppers are on their way, arresting you alive is bottom priority," warned Ratokie.

Jan jumped to a lower ledge of an adjacent building, and busted through a maintenance door, planning to reach the roof to jump to the next building. He hoped that he could make it there before SCS troops could land.

* * *

"WHAT," yelled a flabbergasted Captain Durmov into his radio. "You had the whole building covered and now four men including Sergeant Bixter are injured and one dead, and that roof-rat is slipping away?!"

Hallmark watched and listened with amusement at Durmov's frustration and decided to seize the opening. "Well now Captain, do you accept my professional input about now."

Durmov wasn't having it, "So what, he got lucky, my men were just caught off guard,"

Hallmark merely scoffed, "Well then, I recommend you tell them to not be caught off guard next time."

* * *

Jan kicked open the door to the roof of the building. He had to take the elevator to get to the top floor of the building. Elevators though inconvenient for the guy who didn't like the celebrity treatment, did save him on juice to keep on roof running. Besides, with the widespread occupation of roof-running and people being bitter towards their government, a roof runner using an elevator in a business office was considered normal. The elevator passengers didn't give him a second glance and he saw that not one of them reached for a radio or phone.

When he walked through the maintenance hallway to the roof, it was already open by a careless worker.

"Glad I didn't have to mug somebody for the keys," he thought.

Jan ran to a corner of the roof. There was an electric wire installed to maintain electric connection in case of Minovsky particle interference. He saw a maintenance worker fixing an air vent with his back turned to him. Jan spotted a big pair of bolt cutters behind him. Quietly and sneaking in step with the repairman's twists and torque's of his tools, he grabbed the bolt cutters and before the former noticed, he had already slipped the cutters onto the wire and with a deep breath he zip lined down the wire to another adjacent building.

With precise timing, Jan let go of the bolt cutters and rolled along the roof till his poverty of momentum took its toll.

Suddenly he heard the whistling of jet engines in the air. He looked behind him and saw a Bawruga, Police Dropship coming in from a mile on his right. Its chassis resembled a small Chinook helicopter, but instead of a pair of big rotors it had disk-like set of VTOL fans on the sides. Inside he could see SCS troops armed to the teeth. Thinking fast and with instinct, Jan grabbed a couple of wooden planks for a construction project and arranged them like a ramp over the edge of the roof using two, full paint, buckets, two weigh them down, and with a good running start he jumped to the other building. Unfortunately, just as he had made landing he scrambled for cover as a high pitched ringing in his mind alerted him to SCS taking aim at him.

Barrages of bullets peppered the roof as Jan hid behind an air duct near the edge of the roof on the northeast corner near the edge. He heard the rhapsody of machine gun fire riddled his location with holes as he huddled against his makeshift shield. Jan peeked out from his cover just in time to see four troopers disembark from the dropship before it took off. They peppered his location with suppressing fire, closing in at him single file expecting an easy target, but Jan was no stranger to being flanked and he had them just the right tactical position. Waiting carefully and with a well calculated timing he thrust his leg out in a fierce kick to an SCS trooper just when he had rounded the only corner available, Jan grabbed his pistol and like with the troopers in Grugen's office, he shot out both the unlucky man's thighs. Taking aim from beneath the wounded man's armpit he shot at one of the other troopers and nailed him in the left shoulder, leaving him unable to properly aim his rifle. But the other troopers had no such reservations against friendly fire, especially when body armor afforded that luxury, and shot Jan's hostage knocking the air out of his lungs and making him collapse to the floor in a dead faint.

Jan had to drop his hostage and ran as fast as he could to dodge another barrage of bullets from the remaining troopers. Rolling to the ground he ducked behind another AC unit and waited until he heard the click of a dry clip, rolling out of his cover he lay flat on his belly and aimed with both hands on his stolen pistol and shot the third trooper on his right in his helmet. The concussive force sent him reeling pain and confusion, because the massive, head trauma had left his eyesight fluctuating, leaving him almost blind. The poor trooper wound up stumbling and while the last two troopers were occupied with keeping Jan pinned, the blind trooper was stumbling to the side a little too close to the edge Nobody noticed until it was too late when they heard the scream of the blinded trooper as he took a wrong step and fell eighteen stories to his death. The remaining troopers furiously emptied their guns at Jan's hiding spot, they were pissed now.

"Die you ****ing roof rat!"

One at a time the two pissed, swat cops pumped lead at Jan's AC unit, not bothering with closing in again. Once again the high pitched ringing of his demonic sense alerted him and he looked to his left. A round can-shaped object had rolled right next to him, and it could only be one thing! Without hesitation and knowing just the right angle, Jan quickly picked up the grenade and tossed it back towards the senders."

"Oh S*#T, GRENA-!" (BOOM)

The Sec troops didn't have time to run as the flash bang went off between both of them, and the shockwave threw them off their feet to the roof floor. Any injuries they had sustained from the explosion were a rendered a happy memory when Jan blew out both their limbs before they could recover.

With both his attackers out of commission and one dead (not counting the other fatality back at the office) he grabbed a fresh clip from the pockets in their vests, scanned the edges of the roof and saw a wind tunnel beneath the east side of the roof jutting out like a catwalk and on the adjacent building which was five stories higher was an exhaust pipe. Carefully lowering himself down onto wind tunnel, he leaped to the other building and grabbed the pipe. Gripping it tightly he climbed to the top. Running to the edge he saw another electrical wire leading down to the district near Sesamo Plaza. Removing his polyester jacket and using it the same way as he had the bolt cutters, he zipped along the wire to the next building.

With another perfect landing, Jan took a moment to catch his breath. "Man that was intense," Jan thought. "It was nothing like fighting street patrol or your garden variety thug at all. No way am I picking a fight with those guys again."

Jan looked around for the next building he could jump to. He saw a one of the newly constructed buildings adjacent to the current building he was on, which was just one jump away. It had a workers scaffold, which made it easy to reach without any complicated maneuvers or stepping stones. But his slight, relief was gone with the wind when he felt a slight breeze coming from two Bawruga dropships a mile off heading his way. "Damn, what does it take to ditch these guys?"

* * *

"Lieutenant Stiller's squad is down, repeat Stiller's squad is down, three badly, wounded and one casualty."

"Damn it, get me the lieutenant to assess his squad's condition," yelled Captain Durmov," angered at what he was hearing.

"Impossible sir," replied the Bawruga pilot on the other end.

"Why?"

"That one casualty was the Lieutenant," the pilot grimly replied

Durmov gritted his teeth with fury, he couldn't believe this, two SCS Squads under his command had been bushwhacked not once, but twice by a kid.

He could only grumble with indignity as he began to accept the truth, he had underestimated this particular roof-rat. He had around six men injured and two men dead. While he was often boisterous and cocky, he was able to see reason when backed into a corner. With his career in jeopardy and his image tarnished enough as it was, Durmov swallowed his pride.

"Alright agent, if prostrating at your feet is gonna catch this punk, I'm willing to accept your input and it'd better work."

"A wise choice Captain," Hallmark answered emotionlessly. "Now here are my orders."

"I'm listening," said Durmov begrudgingly.

"Hand over your earpiece; I will be taking command from here."

With a small shred of reluctance, Durmov handed Hallmark his earpiece radio.

Hallmark motioned Durmov toward a monitor displaying video feed of the roof-runner jumping to a building under construction with catwalks.

"Attention all units this is agent Hallmark of SCS Central Bureau. From this point on I will be in charge of this operation to apprehend the suspect and retrieve the stolen data.

Hallmark then turned to Durmov, "As for you Captain, my superiors have authorized the use of gunships for the worst case scenario."

"A gunship _with_ heavy firepower," Durmov asked with concern. "That's overkill, one wrong shot could blow a hole on the colony and the election will be the least of our worries."

"You needn't worry; my superiors are concerned with the colony's integrity. Perhaps you've basking too much in your glory to consider using the latest riot control technology; the weapons for gunships used in colonial security with antipersonnel ammunition, only a few calibers away from being the equivalent of birdshot.

Besides captain, it's common knowledge that rats have a particular hole to hide in, and where there's a hole there is undoubtedly the rest of its brood awaiting a thorough cleansing. I believe you have always wanted to find where roof rats "nest."

Durmov grinned maliciously as he realized the opportunity he now had, "Follow a rat back to its hole then smoke him and his friends, two birds with one bullet. I couldn't have thought it better myself."

"Indeed, though I'd advise you'd keep some alive, my superiors are eager for an interrogation. The rest are expendable."

"Heh, heh, I'll give you a shout once I net me a whole block's worth of roof rats." The Captain pulled out and dialed his data phone, "Captain Durmov here, I'm informing you that the bureau has authorized the use of military hardware, particularly my "baby."

From his hearing range, Hallmark could only hear gibberish on the other end of whoever Durmov was talking too; presumably the police headquarters.

"Have her loaded; we got a roof-rat waiting to be plucked by the hawk. He ain't getting away." Durmov hung up then turned to Hallmark as he started for his APC. "I'm headed to HQ to pick up my baby. Hope you know how to hold down the fort while I bring out the big guns. Anything else you gonna do besides giving my boys coffee calls, agent." Durmov still had yet to trust Hallmark with that remark.

"Nothing as vain as that, I'll oversee the pursuit from my end." Hallmark got into his car starting the engine. "And I wish you luck with your rat hunt."

As Hallmark drove off he spoke into his borrowed earpiece, "Agent  
Hallmark here, what's the current situation?"

"The suspect is heading north on Weathersby Avenue," replied a Bawruga Pilot.

"There's a construction site nearby. Force him to take refuge in the building and pin him down there," ordered Hallmark.

"Roger, sir."

Hallmark smiled sinisterly, "Now my little weasel, let's see if you can navigate a maze better than a mouse."

Contrary to his wish of good luck to the SCS Captain, the roof-runner's capture was dead, last on his mind. He had other ideas regarding the suspect.

* * *

 **Lore dumping time! The Bawruga-class dropship is completely made up thing which I envision as the UC future equivalent of a Blackhawk Helicopter propelled by disk fans.**

 **Hope you enjoyed the action and I hope this brings back fond memories you have with "The Matrix" and "Mirror's Edge."**

 **In case you're wondering why Jan is still alive against a superior armed force I'll give you a little "Life imitates Fiction 101." Long story short SCS is used to catching ordinary roof-runners often by cornering them or cut off all escape routes; threatening them at gunpoint is often enough to make them wave the white flag. However none of them had well developed ESP, and combined with his own weasel-like cunning, gunslinging and martial arts skills, Jan has them outclassed, which SCS didn't see coming.**

 **This kinda relates to the age-old trope regarding why incompetent flunkies are typical of evil organizations; why they're sloppy at their job, especially when faced with the hyper competent hero. However, there are very good reasons for mook incompetence that easily apply to real life as the Galactic Empire in Star Wars has demonstrated from the cues it takes from 20** **th** **century dictatorships: such as infighting, rushed/crummy training, cheap/defective equipment and worst of all, uninspiring/asshole leaders that give zero cigarette butts for their lives.**

 **This also applies to cops in real life whom most are better at pushing papers than fighting deadly criminals (which don't pop up very often), especially when said, criminals are military wash-outs.**

 **Also regarding plot armor, the "Force" in Star Wars and Newtype abilities in Gundam are legitimate, but I like the latter better for having more emphasis on the heroes surviving only by the skin of their teeth on sheer reflexes with a real sense of risk.**

 **R &R everybody and see ya next time!**


	6. Chapter 5: Rooftop Escape

**Chapter 5: Rooftop Escape**

* * *

Things had just gotten tight for Jan. After losing two squads the Secs were wising up, they had cut Jan off and forced him onto a half-constructed hospital building with surrounding scaffolds. They had surrounded the bottom floor with a police barricades and were airlifting more Secs onto the roof and the surrounding buildings, sealing off any escape route he could take. Jan had to find a way out or he was a goner.

He ran across the scaffold. Once again, his demonic senses sent off the high-pitched ringing as he came to the corner. With precise precognitive, timing he sent a swift flying kick that connected right with the head of a Sec just as the latter popped out for a pot shot. The Sec trooper rolled right off the scaffold and fell ten stories to the ground. His partner from behind tried to knock Jan off as well with the butt of his rifle in retaliation, but Jan caught it mid-swing, and using the force of the momentum, flung him sideways towards his partner's fate down below.

Jan could see medics rushing to the fallen Secs. Running inside the building, he hid behind a stack of planks and contemplated the best escape route. The bottom floor was next to suicide with the cops waiting down there like sharks circling the raft of a castaway. Trying to get out that way would get him turned into human Swiss cheese. Even if he did make it through, he'd face annoying traffic that could land him in a car accident (unless a police barricade didn't stop him first). He could drive his way into a building to try and reach the top, but finding the stairs or using the easy to disable elevator would be a good window of opportunity to get caught, and he knew about the buildings more on the top than on bottom. However, he knew that he'd face fewer troops pouring in from above, and he'd be able to get to another building and even if there were troops on the next building, who said he couldn't use another floor. In the end he decided "going up it is." At that moment his demonic sense rang again and he slipped further out of sight.

An eight man squad of Sec Troops piled down the stairs, aiming their guns in every direction, among them a lieutenant holding a handheld thermal scanning device as they surveyed the entire floor, but the suspect was nowhere in sight.

"Dammit," grunted the frustrated lieutenant. He angrily smashed the scanner against the floor, leaving the screen cracked, but otherwise still functional.

"Sir, be careful with that, it's expensive," protested a Sec against the lieutenant's abuse of such essential equipment.

"You call this stupid piece of junk that can't pinpoint the exact location of _one_ roof-rat if its thermal signature is right in front of me, expensive! I'm standing right where this scanner is telling me he is, but he isn't! The little bastard isn't even hiding on the ceiling!"

The lieutenant took a few deep breaths to calm himself from his ranting outburst. "Move to the next floor, fancy hardware or none, he ain't getting out of this building alive."

The Secs walked to the nearest stairs hoping to find the suspect on the lower floor.

The Sec who had more compassion for useful technology than his otherwise hotheaded, superior picked up the scanner and dusted it off, seeing it as still in good shape (cracked screen not withstanding) and attached it to his belt.

Seeing the last of his fellow trooper's head vanish beneath the staircase he walked towards the stairs to catch up.

Suddenly, before he could take the first step downstairs, he noticed a flicker of red light in the poorly lit room in his peripheral vision, leaving one hand free of his firearm, he picked up the scanner from his vest, looked at the cracked screen and his eyes widened. There was a thermal signature on the scanner, the same signature that his superior threw a hissy fit over the scanner's apparent defectiveness and it was right _behind_ him!

Just when he had processed what had happened, he heard the simultaneous "thump" of two shoes on the floor. He turned ninety degrees, but only caught a glimpse of a shadow before a twisted-taught, jacket made of polyester was looped around his neck.

Jan pulled tightly on his makeshift, hangman's noose, and then he spun around holding both ends of the jacket, twisting it tighter and tighter around the Sec's throat causing the latter to drop his weapon as the latter vainly clawed at the tightly wound, noose to give his throat an inch for air. With the last twist leaving him back to back with the Sec, Jan heaved and hoisted his body at a downward angle, sealing the Trooper's throat beyond all hope of the tiniest gasp of oxygen. After around twenty seconds followed by a few more desperate gurgles, the Sec's arms fell limp at his side.

Jan gently lowered the Sec's corpse to the floor without making a sound, panting with his emotions a rhapsody of murderous, satisfaction and a tiny ounce of sympathy towards his victim and for a brief moment Jan contemplated.

This was his first intentional murder of a law enforcement official, making him a genuine cop-killer, but in his defense he had to remove the scanner from the equation, and he needed his equipment.

He wondered if the Sec had a family that would be grieving for him and if he had children who'd face a lot of hardship without a father.

Then again, he was in the same boat, because he was without parents too, both of them, and the man lying dead at his feet was part of the same system that left him and the folks at Sesamo Plaza in their sorry economic state to keep the "Man" fat on his throne.

He had already killed four SCS Troopers by accident and just now a fifth, the latter three most deliberately, and the fifth out of necessity. And given the corrupt nature of the system that didn't bother to put a leash on trigger-happy cops, avoiding another kill was next to no help at this point and no turning back.

Dismissing all traces of guilt, Jan began removing the dead Sec's body armor to don it himself. Then he picked up the scanner then two flash bangs from the Sec's utility belt. Then finally he took his gun and his eyes lit up with, delight. "Sweet," Jan hissed. It was a shotgun, a semi-auto, clip-fed shotgun, a bit heavy for his tastes but just what he needed.

With reaffirmed, determination he picked it up went back to the place where the Sec lieutenant had smashed the scanner and picked up a small round object with a transparent exterior that revealed the circuit boards inside. "Heh, Thermal decoy worked like a charm."

Quietly he walked up several stairs to the top floor and "bingo," he saw his ticket out of here. On the roof was a Bawruga Dropship surrounded by a total of six Secs.

He looked around seeing no loose objects nearby he could use as a hazardous distraction.

Jan pondered nervously; there was very little room for strategy. There was only one way: brute force.

He looked at the flash bang grenades in his hand and he smirked under his bandanna. Peering out from behind a pile of bricks he estimated which angle would be the most logical attack and silently crawled his way to a pile of wooden planks.

Backed against his hiding place, Jan took deep breaths to steel himself for his next risky, move. His demonic sense soon swept over him like a blanket, sending him into a zen-like state, more focused than ever, so focused that time itself seemingly slowed to a crawl. He could hear the echoing footsteps of Sec boots on the concrete roof, the dangling of equipment on their belts and vests, he also "felt" the vigilant eyes of the nearest Sec Trooper scanning in his direction and then turning fifty degrees the other way. Jan pumped his lungs with anticipation and then lunged.

The nearest Sec was caught by surprise as the first shotgun blast caught him in his armored chest sending him flying into his partner.

Then Jan shot said startled partner in the shoulder.

The Kevlar, shoulder pads took the worst of it but, Jan could hear the satisfying crack of dislocation. Another shotgun blast to the armored chest sent him slamming into the concrete guardrail and into unconsciousness.

Then with anticipation he pulled the tag off a flashbang and rolled it like a bowling ball underneath the Bawruga, right at the feet of a third Sec Trooper who only noticed him too late before the grenade went off at his feet.

If the cacophonic ruckus didn't alert the rest of the Sec troops guarding the helipad, the flash bang explosion followed by the unlucky recipient's howls of agony sure did.

The guards rushed over to the other side of the dropship on both sides. They hoped to flank Jan, but found him nowhere.

Suddenly another flash bang went off at the left Sec's feet, dropping him to floor screaming in agony with his legs studded with shrapnel. The second Sec fell to the ground from a shotgun blast.

Out from under the dropship Jan, rolled out with his shotgun spewing fresh smoke.

Charging the last Sec that had just rounded the front of the dropship he raised his shotgun and pulled the trigger, "click."

"Uh-oh," Jan muttered.

The Sec had his assault rifle pointed directly at his head, but before the first bullet could exit the barrel, Jan ducked at the last minute and slid like a baseball batter on a home run right towards the Sec's feet.

Jan hooked his foot left behind the Sec's left leg, and with a great thrust, kicked him right in his stomach. It didn't hurt the Sec with his armor shielding his gut, but the impact from the fall which he couldn't prevent with his locked footing took care of that.

The Sec got up fuming with anger and raised his rifle only to have his weapon seized by Jan.

The two began struggling over the firearm, jerking at every angle in an attempt to wrench it out the other's arms. The Sec pushed against Jan back who walked backwards in step with him to keep himself from getting tackled. Soon like a matador Jan took advantage of the momentum and swung himself around nearly wrenching the rifle out of the Sec's arms. The Sec still managed to keep on hand on the rifle's handle and put his other hand on the barrel.

Jan could sense the malice in his aura and instantly knew what he was up to, the Sec was trying to angle rifle's barrel towards his face, any further and his brain cells would be decorating the rooftop.

Jan struggled, fiercely against his foe's superior muscle, doing his best to keep his head away from the barrel, when suddenly the high-pitched bells of his demonic sense rang again and the pressure he sensed came from the adjacent building in his left direction.

Reacting quickly Jan spun his opponent in the same direction he sensed the danger and immediately he felt an immense force hit the Sec so hard the latter stopped in his tracks and left him standing their paralyzed in agony.

The Sec let out strangled gasps, blood began to soak up his uniform and his mouthpiece. One final cough of blood and he collapsed on the ground.

Jan knew what had happened: a sniper had taken position in the adjacent building taking aim at Jan during his struggle with the Sec. Thanks to the heads up from his demonic sense he had just narrowly got his enemy to take the bullet for him. The armor kept the bullet from exiting out the of the Sec's chest, but not enough to keep the bullet from penetrating his armor right through the Kevlar and lodging deep into the Sec's heart.

Jan gasped with relief, "Lucky!" He now understood why the word bulletproof wasn't applicable to a valid, bluff anymore.

Just then he heard the roar of a jet engine and turned to see the Bawruga taking off along with a frightened pilot who earlier had been cowering with his head down.

Jan thought he was screwed or would have been screwed if he hadn't noticed that in the pilot's panic he had left the door open.

"Oh no you don't," Jan wasn't gonna let his ride get away.

Jan broke into a sprint after the Bawruga as it hovered away, his eyes focused on the open doorway taunting him to hop in. Just when it got past the edge of the roof, Jan's foot thumped onto concrete, guardrail and was launched like a rock from a trebuchet.

He soared through the air, his senses again slowing down time for him, until finally his hands found the handrails next to the doorway, the landing nearly taking his tightly gripping arms out of his socket.

Pulling himself up inside the Bawruga, took in the sight of the pilot, a twitchy and scrawny, ginger of a guy muttering mantras to maintain his chipping sanity.

Calmly walking up to him, Jan reached out and tore the pilot's pistol from its holster.

The ginger-headed pilot instinctively turned to face Jan, his eyes wide with terror to see him staring down on him as if he were the ghost of Christmas future.

"Never leave your doors open, burglars always take it as an invitation," the pilot shivered at Jan's cold statement.

"Please," he begged nervously. "Don't shoot; I'll give you whatever you want."

"That depends on the service of this airline, like free peanuts, after all I am your passenger," Jan spoke in a cold emotionless, tone to reinforce the pilot's fear, having been taught by his mentors that speaking without emotion was an effective, psychological tactic.

Jan sat down in the adjacent to the right, training his gun on its former owner.

"Take me to 4037 East Gonzo Street ASAP, no screwing around, or your friends down there will be wiping your brain cells off the windshield, got it?"

"Ye-yes sir," the pilot nervously shaking, took the cyclic stick and guided the Bawruga towards the destination referred to by Jan.

Jan himself was nervous at how things had just escalated, but was otherwise keeping it together more than his hostage.

He was close very close to making his delivery. He had made it this far and wasn't tapping out, not until he ensured the colony a brighter future, and above all else paying back the apartment folks giving a good home for the past several years.

* * *

 **Another info dump: For those who've played Zeonic Front, what Jan used to fool the Secs is a thermal decoy in conjunction with a cloak; in essence a smaller version the same type of devices that can fit in the palm of** _ **your**_ **hand.**

 **BTW, I promise to wrap up this arc in the next chapter and then the fun will soon begin.**


End file.
